Wolf Spider

 

Wolf Spider

Hey, wolf spider
on the bathtub bottom
scaling porcelain, slipping —
uncatchable. I want to shower.
You dodge my washcloth, you dart away.
You idiot. I’m trying to help.
Must I spray you to the drain?

Bare-ass, crouching I pause,
resting my fingers on the tub bottom
when suddenly you are tickling the hairs
on the back of my hand: a greeting, an asking.
So I lift.
Rapidly I escort you to the kitchen door,
set my palm on the porch floor
where after rain there is the scent of fungus
but you remain,
you stand on my knuckles with sensitive feet
straddling two prominent veins.
You take my pulse.

I lean close,
eyeball to eyeballs unblinking.
We both are hairy.
We frighten women.
We mean no harm.

Suddenly shifting your perch
you read my palm:
heart line, life line, fate.
Almost a handshake.
My future, would you tell?
Then jump, Brother.
Peace and farewell!

…..

From my book Foggy Dog.
First published in Ink Sweat & Tears. Thank you Helen Ivory, editor.